


breakable, unbreakable

by miehczyslaw



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Canon - Manga, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Prose Poem, ehhhhhhhhh idk, kaneki hates himself but touka cant help but loving him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 10:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3807289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miehczyslaw/pseuds/miehczyslaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only force he needed was to simply to hold her hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	breakable, unbreakable

**Author's Note:**

> the touken is killing me so i wrote this crap (◡‿◡✿)

He lacked options. It was him and his impasse—a room without doors or windows—where the blackness of the night oppressed his consciousness like an eggshell until it broke. Again, and again, and again. Kaneki really hadn’t been able choose a different path. Although he considered different options, he discarded them. Not realizing the affect those actions would have on his life.

"This world is very wrong."

Because this was the real world, not some novel. And happy endings were scarce, almost like water in a desert. He had no choice _,_ really. They’d _forced_ him, _tortured_ him, ripping off pieces of himself—first his sanity, then came his heart.

"Please don’t make me a murderer."

He was alone, despite being surrounded by people who had come to appreciate him—killing the life and living with the death, he was losing his values and principles. Before he knew it, Kaneki was then using his hands only for purposes related to violence.

(You’re already a murderer. You can’t change it. Why won’t you accept it, Ken?)

In vain was his head shook among unintelligible mutterings. When he pulled his hair, inflicting himself more emotional pain than physical, and swallowed the impertinent tears with a bitter aftertaste, like the food he used to enjoy in the past. Although, that food is horridly _useless_ now.

Yes, useless, everything is utterly useless. He too, falls into this category. He’d thought he was strong enough to accept his ghoul nature, but to no avail. Moving away from everyone who was important, hiding his fear of being alone behind clumsy promises.

And his palms, _oh,_ his fingers, every day were a little more tinged with red.

There was a time when Kaneki used them for other things: to turn the pages of a book, send messages to Hide, take a burger to his mouth, or even drape a blanket over his mother after a strenuous job. However, he can’t remember how he did it. _Why he did it_. If he looked around now, he’d only see dried blood: a purpose. A reminder of who he really is—break, destroy, _e_ _at_.

And he suffered because of his strength that made him vulnerable. His tenderness decreased, staying with Hinami throughout all of this, so as not worry her about things that would scar her mind furthermore. Ken began to hate his hands. They were _dangerous_.

He couldn’t react when Touka stared at them without pity, or even disgust, but instead, with a hint of sadness—for him, for his fate, for the emotion that he caused in her without realizing it.

She was so similar to him, protecting herself under a sneer. Someone whom Kaneki would try to fruitlessly caress, buried under the splinters of her sullied skin.

"We’re all a little broken, so don’t even begin to believe you’re special, idiot Kaneki," and he understood, really. He understood, except that being beside her made the whole ordeal a little more bearable.

Looking for meaning of his palms—beyond holding the delicate body of Touka with them, keeping her close to him. Or touching hers by accident to reach the same cup of coffee, warm and steamy, causing Kaneki be considered by himself as less monstrous. Even if continued to stain the world with red—and he was _nasty_. So, so nasty. Because at that point he doesn't have sanity and no heart (but he had Touka). And despite living in—that violence, that chaos—she was willing to take it all.

Ken hated his palms still. Bitterly. Immensely. Except when Touka took them in hers, with some reluctance. She’d look into his eyes, by nailing him with those bottomless pits where he would not mind falling, then. Lifting his fingers to her lips, licking, cleaning, purifying. Almost tenderly, breaking down his defenses.

(Restoring his humanity).

And it was then that he understood. That the only force he needed was to simply to hold her hand.

And nothing more.


End file.
